21 Figs for Summer.

Church, Lucas

Turkey Fig. A common fig, often referred to as Brown Turkey. The papery flavor likened to entering a Walmart at two in the morning when: you are alone, searching for a thing--the exact thing you forgot once you left your car in the dark parking lot--but here you are anyway, the smell of old Subway bread lingering, and not even the employees can fathom your loneliness while you try on swimsuits and change your voicemail greeting over and over.

A recipe for fig preserves:

For every pound of figs, melt a cup of sugar in orange juice and water

Bring water and juice mix to a boil.

Remove stems. Lower temperature until the mix is no longer boiling.

Cook 30 minutes.

Fill jars, then boil jars to seal.

Refrain from touching until the jars are no longer hot. Store in a cool, dark place.

Cabaret Island. Mild and soft flesh, hints of cinnamon, red wine, a taste at the back of the throat reminiscent of a far-off field of grass that you cannot see. Best with very dry bread studded with caraway, and a conversation where you refuse to meet the other person's eyes.

Lindsay's Question. The name rumored to come from the daughter of the botanist who spliced the rare Col De Dame Grise with the hardier, though common, Turkey Fig; tastes of camphor and limes, and, once ingested, blooms like liquor on an empty stomach. The question alluded to in the species' name has been lost to time.

Col de Dame Grise. The color of smoke and a taste surprisingly, considering the skin's darkness, airy and bright; pair with a night of watching YouTube videos on your phone in your car, waiting while your husband falls asleep, your wife passes out from the drink, until the coast is clear, and you can finally wake the kids up and tell them how you really feel.

FIGS, ANTEDILUVIAN

Consistently found in historical records, dated before God's presence in the collective imagination of Man.

N'Ghosh. A dark, purple bulb that, when sliced, screams the names of every person you fucked you shouldn't have, every trespass you've committed against a loved one, every joke someone had to explain to you. Fun at parties.

Endicott. Bright green fruit found mostly in humid regions, growing in backyards and down streets where children play games adults have long ago forgotten; the Endicott is not a fig at all, but an archivist of things you thought weren't worth remembering.

Lady Weeping. "Violently sweet," with skin dark as pitch that trembles under light. Some describe the lady weeping fig tree as dangerous, though with bountiful fruit, its branches prone to separating from the trunk without warning. Try cold, blanketed with sifted sugar, a dollop of creme fraiche. Top with a single red berry, any varietal.

Ventricle. Illegal to harvest, grows only on Jan Mayen, a volcanic island between Iceland and Greenland. Rumored to be a favorite of ancient Norse kings for reputed effects on jealousies of the heart. To prepare: blanch, ice bath, mince, sweeten with juice (elderberry is traditional), unclasp dagger, serve.

FIGS, EXISTENCE DEBATABLE

Collected from apocrypha, myth, unreliable narrators: not recommended for cooking.

Nero Duamane. Legendary, existing only in myth and fairytale, the Nero is fabled to treat the most critical ailment of which the eater is unaware: body cancers, impending strokes, a sudden space that's been there the whole time that makes its presence known without warning.

Nao se Desloca. Eaters of this cultivar are, once the flesh is swallowed, compelled to stay where they stand, static, as if rooted to the earth. Serve to enemies, on beaches near large bodies of water that are bound to rise. Not vegan.

Queen Zet. A favorite of a fictional monarch from a lost poem by Tennyson, this fruit, said to deliver to the senses the same rush as that of first love, has become shorthand for a specific brand of unrequited passion, one that if sated would leave the recipient adrift for the rest of his or her days, unsure if what they've experienced was real or a terrible waking dream.

Unnamed. From a single farm, the directions to which have been misplaced, the largest of this species are said measure over 10 feet in diameter, taste like honeyed wine, and are so fragrant when sliced--by groups of grunting men with belly saws--that when the wind is right, locals are said to be lulled into an unexpected calm not unlike the moments before freezing to death.

Hardy Chicago. Canadian variant, ersatz in character. At first commonly confused with the superior Queen Zet, as in: your stepparents vs. your real ones, instant instead of whole bean, and holding your own hand.

Janowiak's White. Smallest recorded fig, syconium the size of a mote of dust, only detectable if you stare at a bright light and allow your eyes to unfocus and swim in the haze. Specialists argue on the level of the fruit's toxicity, but all agree there are side effects from overindulgence, mainly insomnia, ambition, and searching the internet late at night for past lovers while your spouse sleeps. Nearly always ingested without eater's knowledge.

Grass Cardamom. A thick and dense fruit, exceedingly rare; only two of this species left: one in the back of a lab in Bethesda, awaiting DNA testing, and the other, "whereabouts unknown," sits at this moment in the hand of a little girl whiling away her afternoon in a plastic lawn chair, overhot and watching her mother's back as it heaves up and down with the labor of weedpulling, the Grass Cardamom, its fragrance of pears in hot rain, inching closer to her mouth.

FIGS, WE MAY HAVE SHARED

Less of a specific thing; more of a feeling, really.

Green Anglo. Cotton candy sweet at first, then, as it is eaten, the taste dulls until it is like nothing at all; found everywhere: gas stations; parking garages; church basements; the sharp, expected touch of the back of your father's hand. Grows well indoors under artificial light.

Black Tiger. This fig is best eaten while screaming at someone who's betrayed you (What the fuck were you thinking? You didn't think I'd find out?), but beware of the Black Tiger's flavor, that of toasted barley and ambergris, the sense of which will cause untended and careless forgiveness to egregious acts committed against the heart.

Peter's Honey. Sopping mess, with a distinct gamey aftertaste. Often seared in butter and served with raw beef, this fruit is only for those who've tried everything else before giving in to the dark, untested places where desire meets fear.

Daalat Dark. Underneath the cream-colored skin lies black, faintly anise-flavored meat, perfect for reducing to jam, jelly, or a glaze for salted pork, but caution: the Daalat's skin cannot be pierced with earthly implements, and access to the interior can only be gained by solving a series of increasingly complex riddles posed by a mysterious stranger who is actually your father, whom your mother always told you was lost at sea.

Willow Leper. Falls apart in your hands once picked. Eat when mocking someone you love. OR: Eat the first time, in observance, you tell someone you cannot meet them because you have to stay home to charge your phone. Use caution, as Willow Lepers will taste like whatever you had once, miss the most, and can never have again.

Tabitha's Seguro. Found in Centralia, above the cracked earth where smoke seeps from the underground fires; skin the color of white hot embers. Owned by the last remaining residents who no longer possess telephone service, the Seguro is, reportedly, best served at room temperature, with a sweet caramel to balance the bitter fruit.

Parable of the Budding Fig Tree. There was a story of a tree burdened with fruit that I remembered when you made fig jam from the tree out back, when we rented that little place in grad school. I had said that figs are too sweet, and you said but some come off a little earthy, a little different than just sugar, and I said but they aren't even fruit but the membranes of unfurled flowers, something not yet born pulped into paste to smear on bread, to eat while the summer nears, and you, in old cutoffs your brother gave you when you were a little girl with a toothy smile, sat and ate the jam from a spoon, ignoring the fact that these figs were so sweet, too sweet to eat for much longer, and it was you alone who would be left to finish them.